


the road to hell was paved with good intentions

by aestheticisms (R_Vienna)



Category: Zero Escape: Virtue's Last Reward - Fandom
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Post-999, Pre-VLR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Vienna/pseuds/aestheticisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a tragedy in his milky gaze. -- Light, Clover, Aoi. Pre-VLR, Post-999.<br/>Written for Zecret Santa 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the road to hell was paved with good intentions

“Hey, Light?” 

“Mm?” 

“What if, just hypothetically, one of us dies?” 

“That doesn’t sound too hypothetical. Everyone dies at one point.” 

His smile never reaches his gaze, but his hand finds her bubblegum pink head, and he ruffles her hair. Clover rolls her eyes, always exaggerating the reaction to his sarcastic quips. 

“Jee, thanks for the reminder.” She winks. “Hard to remember that I’m not going to be forever young, forever beautiful.” 

“I don’t think that’s even a thing now, to be honest.” He dodges a velvet pillow with relative ease, smoothly sidesteps everything she throws his way. Her laughter echoes in the living room, he feels his way back to a suede sofa chair, a recliner they had imported from the north shores of the States. Once seated, he props his legs up on the chipped coffee table Clover took from her girlfriend’s house, it is stained with coffee and ink and other suspicious substances. His previous investigation led to his left index finger breaking out in hives.

“God, you’re such an ass.” 

Clover plops down on his lap, curls into him, wraps her arms around his chest. She mumbles something incoherent and indecipherable, and Light Field lets out a year long sigh, placing his chin on top of her head. 

“Mmm, yeah.” 

The silence is comfortable, she moves until she is as well, and Light plays with her hair, makes sloppy braids with his left hand and clutches the arm rest with his right. Stable. He needs to be stable. Stability is his calling, that is the basis of his personality--he is her anchor. 

Her question rings in his head, it paints pictures he cannot see. 

The smell is the same, always. Familiar to a point. Visceral, volatile, vengeful. 

It is metallic and raw. 

What if one of us died? 

“You think too much.” Clover says, flicking his forehead with a manicured nail. He wonders what color she’s sporting today, maybe pink, maybe red. He didn’t like the idea of her wearing red, his forehead creases, and Clover laughs lightly. _B_ _lue, they’re blue,_ she hums.

“You think too little.” Light replies, without missing a single beat. Blue is a good color. He likes how it looks against her skin, lightly tanned from the Las Vegas sun. Bright blue on olive fingertips. She sends him snapshots, their non verbal ping pong is their favorite mode of communication. 

Seeing, without seeing. 

She sighs against his chest, and murmurs something pretty, thinks something sad. Light kisses her hair, and exhales something miserable. 

“There’s no need to be scared. You’re ready.” 

That’s all he can say. There’s a knock on the door, and she’s off of him, but her laughter still rings in his head, and she’s gone, gone, gone. 

The door opens. 

He hears a hushed exchange of words, he hears an Egyptian queen taking away his little sister.  

“It’ll be an easy job, you’ve had your training.” Alice taps Clover’s nose, the act is almost romantic if not for the all black ensemble and the over-analytic gaze, dark eyes take in everything, and spit it out, disappointed. 

“I know, I know!” This Clover is confident, winking and twirling in her black boots, ready to bring a secret society to its knees, armed to the teeth with knives and red lipstick. Alice smiles, softly and steadily, before going back to businesslike and curt,  _that girl runs hot and cold._

 _shut up,_ Clover tucks a strand of purple-pink hair behind her ear.  _you’re just bitter you aren’t getting any._

Light purses his lips, and wishes them well on their journey. 

“Good luck.” 

_come back._

Clover shoots him one last look before disappearing into the winter air. 

* * *

 

I.

Before she leaves him, she leads him.

She tugs at his sleeve, pulling stiff fabric forward, and with the black blazer, he goes. Their gait is quick, they slip in between the cracks, push themselves against walls when the Las Vegas traffic gets too bad, too congested, when humanity sits up on its haunches and  _roars_ , the deafening noise of a mass migration from casino to casino, Spring Valley Road to Tropicana Avenue, it all makes Light wish he wasn’t blind. It’s a fleeting thought, but it makes him uncomfortable. He’s used to relying on his sister’s judgement and soft fingertips, he trusts her, implicitly and completely. 

_We’re almost there, how’s the harp doing?_

_That’s pretty funny, coming from the person not carrying it._

He clutches the case handle tightly, any miscalculated bump or trip would send the priceless Field heirloom into the asphalt and concrete. Light didn’t think his father would appreciate his most valued possession in shambles on a glass-littered street where tourists would piss on it before helping pick up the pieces. 

“Oh, we’re here.” 

Clover claps excitedly, and opens a glass door, Light follows her into the dark of a seedy club (It smells like absinthe and desperation and disappointment, he can tell why she’s taken him here.) She is flighty, constantly moving, talking to the bartender, talking to the manager, talking to the audience, Light finds her energy dizzying and wills himself to the stage, carefully making his way past chairs and wires and other potential death traps. His instrument is already waiting for him, Clover works miracles with a wry grin, and she’s at his side again, leading him to a chair, placing his fingertips on ivory strings. 

This is his first live performance, and Clover’s in the audience, in a front row seat. She’s the only one that matters.

He plucks notes, starting slow, says into the microphone, "Hello, hello everyone."

"Isn’t it great to be alive?"

His audience mumbles, and titters a bit. 

“Yeah, yeah, I guess.” One man says, with cyan eyes and snow white hair. “Life’s treating me nicely.” 

Clover tilts her head, towards the offending individual. Her smile disappears completely.

Light’s melody picks up, turns into something harmonic, something powerful, the audience falls silent. They’re captivated by every single note, every single word his harp whispers, they listen. They are prepared to do anything for him, Light realizes, when their eyes go glassy. 

Except for the man.

Light runs a hand through his silver hair, and whispers his thanks, "Thank you everyone for coming tonight." The hours melt into each other, and soon enough, the spell breaks. They are coming back to life, blinking hard and pressing their hands against their lips, trying to recreate the taste of something ethereal. 

_I don’t like that man._

Light does not either. Clover sends him snippets.

He does not like him at all.

“Really, great show.” He approaches Light, like a child approaches a flickering flame. 

“Thank you.” Light does not let go of the harp. The man chuckles, and raises his brows.

“Will you be here next week?”

“That’s up to the landlord.” 

There is no punchline. 

“In that case, I’m looking forward to your next act.” 

The man dips his head and leaves, laughing all the way out. Clover is at Light’s side, he does not attempt looking into her head, not right now, everything that is coming out is rapid fire, morse code. He’d need a couple of minutes to decipher a fraction of it. 

Her emotions are getting in the way. Typical Clover. 

His harp returns to its case, and they make their way back home. 

“When was the last time you thought without some sort of inherent bias?” Light asks, only for Clover to give him some half-hearted  _hmph._

“Light, do you think about before?” 

The question is not unexpected. Light pinches the bridge of his nose at a stop light. The light turns green and pedestrians are allowed to continue their journey home. He thinks it over, before finally responding at the front of their house, prim and proper and well taken care of, this is the legacy of the Field family. 

“Well, being dragged into a sloppy attempt at revenge and almost dying is fairly traumatic, so, yes, I do think about before.” 

Clover rolls her eyes. “That was pretty awful, huh?” 

“I would consider that an understatement.” 

Light deposits his harp in the second living room, the greeting room, and makes his way into the first living room, where he promptly drops himself on one of the sofas. Clover sits on the armrest, tucks her legs underneath herself, and sighs.

“That guy reminded me of Santa.” 

“His name is Aoi.”

* * *

 

II.

Aoi Kurashiki has a reputation in the artist world, has a reputation for coming in and out like a street cat, complimenting pretty boys on their work, and leaving them writhing. It was a Kurashiki thing, Light thought with a grimace. His visits to Light’s cafe were becoming more and more frequent, his presence was suffocating. He was a relic of the past, a relic he so desperately wanted to watch  _burn._

Light clears his throat, and returns to his sonorous playing. The audience ignores the discrepancy in his piece, ignores the sharp and the ugly notes that bubble underneath the surface. 

With him, Aoi brings memories Light so carefully compartmentalized--memories he buried underneath sarcastic retorts and vague threats. 

His name wasn’t always Light Field, the harp sings. His name was Snake, once. The audience is entranced by magic and spirit dust, they breathe in the smog and incense and music.  His name was Snake because he  _never let go of his prey,_ because  _of his eyes, snake-eyes._ Get it. He’s  _blind. He was a prince, in another life._ Prince of absolutely  _nothing._

_He is Lazarus, back from the dead._

At one point he wonders, Light thinks to himself. 

When did he stop wishing he was alive?

He opens his eyes, for the first time in a long time, the audience reacts accordingly, with gasps and wails, oh,  _our god,_ they scream. He is here, he is here.

He thinks it’s pathetic. The harp lulls them. 

If there is anything he has learned, anything he has internalized, it is that there is no god. 

Light is his own deity. 

If anything, he’s a demon sent from the depths of hell. 

* * *

 III.

One day in December, he closes up shop, hears his followers carry his harp past his bedroom and into its proper place in the second living room, and bids them farewell, Light finds himself sitting on the tile floor, looking at nothing in particular. 

Clover thinks it’s funny, she lays down next to him, and points at things he cannot see.

"Light.” 

_Yes?_

He doesn’t feel like talking today. His bloodied fingertips pick at the gold piping on his jacket. 

“Alice and I have a very important mission at the end of the month.” 

_That’s nice._

“Please be serious.”

_I am. I thought your work was confidential._

“You’re my brother.”

_Thanks for the reminder. Pray tell, what other obvious fact are you going to share today?_

“God.”

_He’s a nice guy._

“Anyway! It’s really important, and I wanted to tell you that I might be gone for a little bit after Christmas, I mean, I tried to get out of it because I didn’t want you spending the holidays alone, but, work is work.” She bites on her lower lip.

“Please promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

_The state of Nevada forbade me from driving car. There is literally nothing I can do._

“I know...”

_I’m still kind of upset, I'm very good at driving._

“I really have nothing to say about that, I nearly killed us last time I tried using the freeway.” 

_As expected._

“Ass _._ ”

_I’ve been told that’s my best quality._

* * *

 

IV.

The day before she leaves, she is primping and preening, curling her lashes just  _so,_ and brushing her long, long hair until it’s absolutely perfect.

She says it’s tradition, to get dolled up before a big day. Then, she’ll have the look absolutely down for when she actually needs to look good. Light never understood Clover’s logic, but he lets her be, she sits in front of the vanity for hours and he lays down on her princess bed, playing with the canopy tassels. 

At the end of the night, she is in his arms, telling him to not let her go. 

_I believe in you._

He can’t think of anything else. He doesn’t trust himself to say the right thing. 

* * *

 

V. 

The house feels so, so empty without Clover.

Light does not like it, does not like it all. 

Aoi Kurashiki does, and he makes himself at home rather quickly.

Light walks to the cafe every tuesday, every thursday. 

The turnout makes him feel like the second coming of Jesus Christ.

* * *

 

VI.

_Are you doing well?_

_Haha, Alice and I are almost to the test site! kind of jittery._

_There’s so much sun here, I kind of forgot Christmas is in a couple of days._

_Stop taking so long to respond, jeez!_

_Light._

_Light...?_

_SNAKE_

The radio silence is the worst.

* * *

 

VII.

Clover Field is captured, and Light is unable to do a single, fucking, thing. 

There is nothing for him to do, nothing but stare at the void, stare and chat the void up, "Hello, darkness, my old friend, how have you been? It’s been a while."

Pathetic.

Absolutely pathetic. 

The Nevada sector of the SOIS comes to his door, tells him that his sister has been captured, and that they have not been able to contact her. _No_ _shit, I haven’t been able to either._

They haven’t seen Alice, or any of their affiliates. They will keep him posted with any further development. Thank you for your service.

“It’s kind of sad, seeing her leave again.” 

“God, you’re like a plague.” Light scowls at what he assumes is Aoi, the cafe is empty today, aside from a hungover barista and the paperboy having a spiked glass of milk before going on his morning rounds. “Everything you touch dies.” 

“I remember you having a more...illustrative vocabulary. Has age finally caught up to you?” 

He can see Aoi’s smirk clear as day.

“I am not going to dignify that with a response.”

Light takes a sip of his earl gray, he brings the tea cup to his lips, and refuses to let his hand shake.

“What’s it like, Snake? Being alone in your head?” 

The harpist clenches his fists. He has no time for this. He has no time for anything that isn’t scouring the ends of the earth for his sister, because she is the only thing he has left.

Really, is that the reason? 

Light does not ponder it further, he will not like the answer he will find in the recesses of the empty stadium that is his brain.

“You get so used to hearing their voice, it’s all kinds of shit when they’re gone.” 

Light opens his mouth. Closes it.

He’s having tea with a murderer, and the first thing he feels is  _sympathy._

“All kinds of shit. That’s an apt way of describing it.”

* * *

 

VIII.

“The world is ending today, you know.” 

"April thirteenth.” 

“Do you think she’s alive?”

“Clover?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe.”

“What about her?”

“Akane? Ha, that bitch’s a riot.”

“She’s your sister.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“That’s no way to address kin.”

“She left me.”

“Are you angry?” 

“No.”

Silence. Aoi grants Light a small smile, something bitter and despondent. 

Light wishes he could see it. 

They face the sun. 

It’s warm. 

* * *

 

IX.

Clover wakes up.

_Light?_

**Author's Note:**

> written for zecret santa 2013, holla holla for the dollar  
> my zecret santa was qq-quark, i hope u enjoy this friend
> 
> notes!: this is set in between 999 and vlr, and kind of goes into what snake was up to during that little break. it also ends on the day radical 6 completely takes over the world, so the ending is kind of ambiguous as to whether or not snaki and santa actually die. they probably do, but we'll get to find out in ze3 lmao  
> thank you for reading !


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